Inglorious
by projectpancakes
Summary: A doubting Stelios is unable to sleep. Where does his mind wander? Stelios POV.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I do not own 300, comic or movie. Obviously. Stelios POV.

How many days are left?

At this point I'm not even sure why I bother asking. No matter how long I ponder that question, no matter how many alternatives I entertain, no matter how many times I've cursed the gods, my fate remains inevitable. The entire purpose of my life is to fulfill one goal--a single, fantastic and provocative wish of death. A "beautiful death," as it's called here. It's ironic that the only worthwhile thing I could do in life is to die.

I laugh at that last thought, pausing a moment to realize how traitorous it is. Why am I laughing?

My laughter reaffirms what I already know. "I'm a failed Spartan," I whisper to myself.

I glance down at my hands. The blisters, still wet and raw from training earlier today, are stinging and begging to be cleaned. I can't stop staring at them. Surely, Astinos has as many as I do by now. His hands are fresh and young, and have hardly experienced what it means to be a Spartan warrior. I scoff at my own pompous thoughts. If I knew what it means "to be a Spartan," I would not be standing here degrading myself while the rest of my supposedly _beloved_ city is sleeping.

From my bedchamber, I can see the open fields and hills where we practiced today. I remember our Captain praising young Astinos, laughing and smiling at how well the boy was progressing. Am I the only one who feels this unsuccessful at the end of the practice? Am I the only one who feels so constantly distressed by those drills? Those unfeeling, morbid recitals?

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Running my hand through my hair, I suddenly become aware of how sore my shoulders are. My dirty hands futilely attempt to rub out the pain. Shouldn't I be used to it by now, anyway?

I spare a glimpse at my sleeping wife, so vulnerable and fragile in her slumber. Poor woman. She must think she's married a Spartan soldier; a strong, unwavering portrait of what it means to be glorious. A single but necessary part of an entire unit of soldiers exactly like him! Shallow woman. She couldn't even begin to understand. I silently curse her for giving birth to our first child, a son. I can't even bring myself to hope for him. My only wish for him is that he may grow up believing what he's told. Questioning those rigid beliefs of our people is to resign yourself to torture, to a perpetually unanswered state of insecurity.

The tile floor is cold against my bare feet. It's past midnight by now, judging by Artemis' moon. This late night brooding is doing nothing for me. I should be sleeping, or at least trying to. Perhaps I even fail at that as well.

_TBC _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you for all of the comments! Also, I'd like to make it known that I am taking a few liberties with this story. Some of the customs/objects don't align exactly, but, hey, what is fiction for? :P _

_Disclaimer: I don't own any characters from the movie/comic, 300. _

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_Bright._

That is my first thought as my eyes peel open.

Oh, good. I suppose I did sleep after all. After pushing myself up from my pillow, I lean back slowly onto the bed's headboard, making contact with a dull thud. The tangled sheets are wrapped around my legs, and I squirm to try to stretch the sleep from my limbs. I breathe in.

Suddenly, the traitorous inner babblings of last night rush back to me. I part my lips and exhale, trying to alleviate the throbbing that's forcefully gathered in my chest. I am now all too aware of myself--my aching back, blistered hands, bruised shins. I can feel my shame manifesting itself physically, literally pulsing through my veins and running up and down my nerves. Even though I've slept some, I'm restless and tired. I'm nervous--_anxious_, even--and daring myself to get out of bed. A groan barely escapes my throat.

Another typical morning.

The growing sounds of the birds tell me that I've wasted too much time in bed already. Breakfast here is usually served at sunrise, and I will absolutely need it if I'm to survive another day of practice. I suspect my wife is already about, perhaps even nursing my baby son. I reach my hand out to touch her side of the bed. It is cool, and the linen is a nice change for my stinging hands, so used to carrying a spear or a sword. I can bitterly recall there was a time in my life when I thought a bed was a luxury. The Spartans would send a mere child into the wild--naked--not even allowing him to be fed. Whipping him, starving him, depraving him of all contact except for—

I have to stop thinking like this. I have to try to kill these thoughts. I just want to be at peace with myself. Then again, I've never really been good at giving myself what I want. Looking at my bruised and scar covered body is enough proof of that.

Why can I just leave this "city," if you could even call it that? These goddamn weak walls of my supposed home close me in—me, a trained Spartan solider—and I'm utterly helpless to break through. This pile of mud and brick mocks me. In Sparta, we have no outer city walls. We, the soldiers of Sparta, are the surrogate walls. This is a jail whose doors are unlocked and wide open. But I don't leave.

I rub my eyes in a pathetic attempt to relax myself. I have somewhere to be shortly, and standing here mulling over the morbid reality of my life should not be part of my routine. Unfortunately, it's looking more and more like that.

Oh, I've almost forgotten. Breakfast. I should probably eat, but I can't really bring myself to care.

Grabbing my spear, shield, and helmet, I exit my bedchamber. Holding my head high, my Spartan mask well in place, I get ready for another day. My only comfort is knowing that someday soon, I will die.

I can't wait.


End file.
